


When Push Comes To Shove

by thepetulantpen



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, depending on how you look at it, i think this could technically be romantic or platonic, post ep6, the boys finally communicating for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: “How long are you going to stand there?”“Probably as long as you’re going to sit there.”In which Jaskier refuses to leave Geralt after the dragon hunt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 1645
Collections: Best Geralt, Geralt is Sorry





	When Push Comes To Shove

Jaskier has never been scared of Geralt. Never been scared of _any_ witcher, really, to his mother’s dismay. All those scary stories meant to frighten him into behaving never had any effect, always bounced off his foolhardy skull. 

Even when he was old enough to hear real stories and see the violence for himself, he was never _afraid_. The brashness- or stupidity- of youth must have been at least partially responsible, but he may not have felt so strongly if it wasn’t for his insider understanding of how stories work, and what public opinion _really_ is. 

A fear of the unknown. 

There’s nothing scarier, to the masses, than an enemy they don’t understand, someone with power that’s beyond human limits and, consequently, beyond human comprehension. Witcher myths fill this gap by giving people something to believe, some way to understand witchers. Even if they’re lies, even if they’re little more than an excuse to treat people like shit. 

They fulfill their purpose, providing a villain for a play, a poem, a song. 

Jaskier thinks he may have been guilty of taking advantage of that, before. It was easy to have a faceless man- a mutant, even- with a scary nickname stand in for the evil adversary. Easy, that is, before you put a face and- in Jaskier’s case- a bit _more_ than a face to the name. 

Now that he _knows_ Geralt, he’s realized there was never any reason to be scared. Seeing the big swords, the muscles, and the eyes up close is like pulling back the curtain on a magic show. The closer he gets to the traditionally scary parts, the closer he gets to the kindness and the surprising humor of a witcher. Of Geralt, anyway. 

He’s never been scared of the Butcher, and a few mean words isn’t going to break that streak. 

It’s the lack of fear that allows him to hold fast, to decide to dig his heels in and _stay_ , just like that first day on the road. This, in comparison, is easy. All he has to do is stand and wait, no horse to keep up with and no aches from gut-punches to contend with. 

His only regret is the loss of a story. A dragon would’ve made excellent material for a song and his only sources are slipping farther away the longer he stares at Geralt but- but story be _damned_ this is important. 

“How long are you going to stand there?”

Geralt’s growl makes him jump but Jaskier steadies himself, adjusting the strap on his lute’s travel case and glaring defiantly at Geralt’s back. The witcher is a fool if he thinks he can intimidate Jaskier without even turning around.

“Probably as long as you’re going to sit there.” He shifts, restlessly, from one foot to another. His feet have stopped complaining of soreness after days of abuse and he’s starting to think that may be more a warning than a blessing. “Might have a sit, in a minute. Over here, of course. Out of range.”

Geralt doesn’t even grunt in acknowledgement so Jaskier does as he said he would, settling himself on a nearby rock. He has a feeling he’ll be here a while, if he knows anything about the witcher’s stubbornness. It reminds him of stakeouts- happier, if dreadfully boring, times. 

Normally, he would take it as good time to work on a song, testing out a tune on his lute, but he doesn’t dare take the instrument out now, fearing it might shatter the fragile tension. Instead, he pulls out a quill and goes over his lyrical notes, making changes and silently contemplating what they might sound like. 

It gets harder as the sun sinks lower in the sky, but he’s done more tedious things for Geralt’s sake. Silently studying music for hours to fill the time isn’t even close to the top ten. Not even the top twenty.

Gods, this has been going on a long time if he can honestly say he has a top twenty. Maybe he should write that down next—

“When are you going to leave me alone?”

Now, it’s Jaskier’s turn to not look up. He keeps his eyes trained on the paper, even when he hears the creak of leather as Geralt stands. 

“I already told you—“

“What are you, a child? You’re just going to sit here, carrying on your tantrum until… what? The sun comes up?” Geralt scoffs, eyes boring holes in the top of Jaskier’s head. “How _old_ are you?”

“Older than I was. Old enough, Geralt.” Jaskier finishes the sentence he was on with an overly flourished dot. “And a tantrum, really? That’s rich, after the scene you made a few hours ago. How long have you been pouting on that rock?”

Jaskier looks up, meeting those fire-filled eyes. He holds it for a few seconds, studying the anger and pain there, and then breaks the stare, taking a deep breath. 

It’s easy to recognize Geralt’s verbal shoves, they’re about the same as his physical ones. Jaskier has seen enough battles to brace for when Geralt is going to push a monster back, before its teeth and claws get acquainted with his neck. It’s just as easy, after all these years, to see them coming in conversation as well, pushing away strangers before they become acquaintances, collateral damage in his dangerous life. 

There’s no need for Jaskier to shove back. It’s better to hold on, attach himself like a weight to Geralt’s boot until he has no choice but to deal with him properly. 

It’ll take considerable effort to get to that point, with Geralt’s infuriating habit of ignoring his problems, but Jaskier is willing to work at it. Geralt’s ignoring Jaskier now, turning his attention and grumbles to rooting through his supplies. 

The sun hasn’t set yet, but Geralt begins the process of making a fire, arranging the wood with more force than necessary. _Tantrum_ would be a rather accurate descriptor, though Jaskier doesn’t bother to point that out, just watches with mild curiosity. 

“We’re making camp _now_? Here?”

“ _I’m_ making camp here.”

Geralt pulls his supplies closer to himself, as if guarding them from Jaskier. Making it clear he won’t be begging a meal or a blanket out his pack. 

_Talk about childish_ , Jaskier thinks, but doesn’t say. He bites his tongue just in time, remembering not to shove. 

Jaskier pulls out his own bag, heavier than it was in previous years now that it’s filled with more practical things, at Geralt’s suggestion. First out is a wrapped pack of rations that Geralt had given him for their travels. He makes a- possibly, kind of, sort of, _petty_ \- show of biting off a chunk of jerky, but he’s a bard. He can’t really be blamed for making a _show_. 

That logic doesn’t stop Geralt from shooting him a sour look; though, he doesn’t go further than a glare. Saying anything about the gift would be too much like a confession, an admission of what they were before Yennefer. 

Jaskier bides his time as Geralt eats in silence. It’s odd for a meal between the two of them to be silent and he sees, though the witcher would _never_ admit it, that it’s making Geralt a little uneasy. He fidgets like he does when he’s unsure what exactly he’ll be facing for a contract, fingers involuntarily fussing with the ties of his armor. 

When Geralt is done, it’s still not dark. Too early for sleep, too early for him to even pretend to meditate. 

Too early for sleep, but too late for starting the hike down the mountain, not that Geralt is planning on it. The witcher, if Jaskier had to guess, is waiting for the bard to leave, unwilling to be the one to give up first. The joke’s on him, Geralt has never, in all their years of knowing each other, seen the full scope of Jaskier’s stubbornness and is severely underestimating how committed Jaskier is to staying. 

It leaves them nothing to do but stare at each other. Jaskier meets it with a raised eyebrow, waiting to see if Geralt will make a move, make this easier for the both of them.

Geralt scowls and turns away, looking around himself for a minute like he’s searching for something to do. He settles on reorganizing his pack, dumping out everything and shoving it back in.

The attempt at distraction almost makes Jaskier laugh. It definitely makes him smile, which is how he realizes that Geralt is, despite the unconvincing act, watching him. The packing speeds up when Geralt spots Jaskier’s grin, getting a little more forceful and messier. 

“You’re only making it worse, you know.”

It’s maybe, based on Geralt’s grunt, a little unclear which part he’s talking about. Jaskier likes it that way, loves to leave creative interpretation up to his audience. Witchers are, in fact, capable of that; he knows, from quiet moments and quieter comments in taverns after his performances. 

All the same, Geralt has passed on his chance to _do_ anything, so it’s Jaskier’s turn. He, unlike his witcher, isn’t completely emotionally stunted and he’s going to get to the bottom of this, preferably before dawn. 

Jaskier already knows Geralt didn’t mean what he said, that he was just upset about Yennefer and Jaskier happened to be in the way, but he also knows it’s more than just Yennefer, just as the djinn was more than just a need to sleep. Geralt has been fussy since he saw the sorceress again- no, since Borch said—

“What are you missing, Geralt? What did you hope to find up here?” Jaskier looks away, toward the rock path and down the mountainside to civilization and real beds far out of reach. “Was it Yennefer? Was it _really_ Yennefer?”

Geralt doesn’t respond so Jaskier decides to _push_. Forward, not away. 

“It can’t have been peace, not in a dragon’s lair. No thrills either, nothing more than your usual. Not even treasure, you could’ve gotten a better contract in town.”

Geralt gives up on the bag and pulls back from the fire. He crosses his legs and closes his eyes, as if going into meditation. Jaskier knows better, can see that the unnatural stillness hasn’t set in, and probably won’t for the next few hours.

“I know you can hear me.” Jaskier turns and gestures, for an audience he doesn’t have, to the scarce brush around them. “The child isn’t up here. None of your _destiny_ is waiting on this mountain. What were you hoping to find?”

More silence. Jaskier stands, stalks over to Geralt, and crouches in front of him. 

“What were you hoping to find? What are you missing?”

Geralt’s eyes open and a fire ignites there, flashing like an explosion over a mage’s battle. He stands and Jaskier stumbles back in his haste to join, barely clearing enough space for the two of them without stepping into the fire. Both literally and figuratively. 

“Will you _shut up_?”

“No, no I won’t and I’m _sick_ of hearing you say that.” Jaskier bites down on a few more words, toxic retorts about the djinn that he’d never dare speak, for fear that bringing them to light will scar Geralt with _more_ lashings of guilt. “I’m not going to stop and I’m not going to give up on you, no matter how hard you’re trying to make me.”

Geralt takes a threatening step forward, or attempts to, anyway. The motion is aborted halfway through when Jaskier doesn’t flinch and refuses to give him space to go anywhere. Unless he’s willing to step on Jaskier’s shoes, which he’s not. Jaskier counts that as a good sign. 

“What are you going to do? Throw me off the mountain? Run me through with the steel?” He scoffs and leans in, breath against Geralt’s chin. There’s not even enough room between them to draw the sword. “You wouldn’t even slay a dragon that scorched a mountainside because of its dwindling numbers and you expect me to believe that you’ll kill me for being _annoying_?”

Geralt’s face tenses, like it does when he’s hiding a smile. Jaskier doesn’t know what expression he’s hiding beneath the stone this time, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. 

The witcher takes a step back. And another. He casts his eyes down, at the mess of his pack on the ground. Jaskier has room to breathe, room to step away from the fire’s overwhelming heat. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You already have.”

Geralt tenses, surprised, maybe, at the harshness. Jaskier doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t want to lose Geralt but he has to _understand_. 

“You can’t keep shoving me out of the way. It’s not a mercy, I know,” Jaskier swallows and looks away, mirroring Geralt, “I know you think it is. But it hurts, Geralt. It’s been years and I’m spending- gods, Geralt, I spending _decades_ of my short, short life with you. I wish you wouldn’t act like it’s nothing.”

There’s a little sound in the back of Geralt’s throat, the start of a response, but Jaskier cuts in, disregarding the rarity of a _response_. 

“I can give you space, if that’s really what you want. Hell, I can even give you silence, without the wish this time.” He pretends not to notice Geralt’s wince. “But I’m not going to let you make me another of your regrets. I want a better legacy than a bitter blip in your many lifetimes.”

There’s silence, dust settling after an impact, then Geralt sits down heavily, as if his knees are giving out. It strikes Jaskier, ridiculously, as _unfair_ ; if anyone should be collapsing it should be the poor, tired human. 

Jaskier steps forward, meaning to join him on the rock, but Geralt grabs his hand before he can sit. He freezes, held in place in front of Geralt. It’s a rare moment when Jaskier is staring _down_ at him, yet he still manages to feel small under the intensity of the witcher’s stare. 

Geralt’s other hand joins the first, eclipsing Jaskier’s between them. They’re warm, all that slow moving, magic-heated witcher blood doing them a favor. 

“I’m sorry.”

It seems like nothing at all, the bare minimum, but now that Jaskier’s looking into Geralt’s eyes, smoldering embers of remorse, he thinks he could’ve settled for a _grunt_. 

Jaskier is well-versed in pulling words from the abstract, putting words to the indescribable and portraying the describable as more than what’s seen. He considers himself a master of language; whether that language is Common, Elder, or _Geralt_ , doesn’t matter. He hears Geralt, for all the words he doesn’t say. 

It’s a bit of magic, passed between them. Nothing like the _too much, too many_ words of Yennefer, just a few too little words and a lot of patience. Jaskier pulls his weight here, in conversation, and bridges the gap of the ditches Geralt digs himself into. 

Jaskier brings his other hand up to grasp the tangle they’ve made and squeezes, feeling the scrape of Geralt’s callouses against his own. He lowers himself to his knees in front of Geralt and just holds for minute, quiet.

Then he looks up, brilliant blues sparkling in the late afternoon light. 

“I know.”

Geralt pulls on their hands, guiding Jaskier to sit beside him. Jaskier leans into him, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder and ignoring the half-formed grunt. An instinctive protest, though the contact is allowed, as an apology. 

This close, Jaskier feels Geralt’s slow pulse through the hand still pressed in one of his. Against his chest, Jaskier notices the slight shake of a skipped breath and looks up to that steadily weakening mask.

“Geralt?”

“What do you think it was?” Geralt glances down and, at Jaskier’s puzzled look, elaborates, “What Borch said I was missing.”

“I don’t know. I mostly just wanted you to think about it; honestly, I thought you’d have a better idea than me.” Jaskier sits up a little straighter, studying Geralt like some detail of his face will solve this particular mystery. “I guess it depends on whether you think you’ve found it. Do you feel more whole? Do you have that satisfied feeling you get when you dig something you thought you lost a week ago out of the bottom of your pack?” 

Geralt looks at Jaskier, pointedly. 

“What? Me?” Jaskier laughs, too loud in the relative silence of the mountain. “You already had that, you moron.”

It’s silly, of course it is, but beneath the initial layer, Jaskier hears the unsaid things, the poetry he’d weave from the silence. _Trust, understanding, belief_ —

“Maybe you found those brain cells you lost when that roof collapsed on you. Just forgot to equip them, is all.”

Geralt hums, a softer sound than a grunt, though they’re indistinguishable to the untrained ear. Jaskier can hear things shifting in that brooding head of his, mulling over new thoughts. _Slowly_. 

So fucking slowly. Jaskier has never thought that long about anything he’s said ever, in his life. Actually, that might be his problem. 

He shakes himself, internally, from an unwanted epiphany and turns to catch Geralt’s gaze.

“Geralt, you’re killing me. Spit it out already.” 

“I was just,” Geralt’s jaw clenches and unclenches, physically wrestling with the words, “Just wondering if you’d still want to join me. For the next part of the journey.”

It _can’t_ be a real question. It must be a courtesy, or some allowance for his guilt, Geralt can’t _possibly_ —

Those warm, fiery eyes are wide and earnest and _stupid_. Gods, Jaskier can’t believe, after all this time, Geralt could possibly believe he’s going to stay behind.

“You’ve got to be fucking with me. _Of course_ I’m coming, I thought I made that clear by waiting for you on this mountain for _hours_ \- I mean, Melitele, I didn’t even sing, I’ve just been _sitting_ —“

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pulls his words to a sudden stop, closing his mouth around them with an indignant frown. Perhaps, in the time Jaskier has spent learning about Geralt, Geralt has picked about a few things about his bard. He has to take a second to recover from the unexpected _thank you_ , of all things, and rights himself with an easy smile. 

“Not a problem, Geralt. I know you’d be lost without your brilliant, beautiful, brawny travelling companion.” Jaskier counts it as a victory that Geralt only raises an eyebrow at the last adjective. “Besides, I can’t have you going into your Destiny by yourself- who will be there to record it? To let the world know that it’s been fulfilled, at long last?”

“Hm. I’m glad one of us can take some delight in what Destiny has planned.”

“Well, it makes a decent song, at least.” Jaskier looks down, at the stubborn embers of their impulsive fire, then up, at the still blazing, though steadily sinking, sun. “I don’t think Destiny gives a shit about me, honestly.”

Geralt cuts him a sharp look, surprised at the rare insecurity. “Thought you were Destiny’s biggest fan.”

“I was. _Am_.” Jaskier looks over his shoulder, as if some cosmic entity is watching and waiting to catch his slip-up. “I think that’s the problem. You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder? I come on too strong, sing her praises _too_ frequently.” 

“A common problem for you, I’m sure.” Geralt hears his sputter, he _must_ at this closeness, but ignores it, adding, “You’re in her blind spot, then. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Not sure how _lucky_ it is to be a no-name bard in the company of incredible, powerful heroes, but at least I’m not dead, I suppose.”

“A famous, brave bard who gets a front row seat to Destiny’s greatest schemes,” Geralt corrects, then turns his head toward the sunset, watching the light bleeding over the forest far below them, “Adventure, without any of the side effects.” 

“Pretty sure that whatever is in charge out there just didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Geralt snorts and Jaskier smiles, though he privately thinks that Geralt might be right, for once, about something other than monster hunting. Destiny is _dense_ in the air around important people and solidifies in threads connecting others, but he doesn’t feel its hold now. 

This, somehow, feels unplanned. 

The great Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, is hurtling toward a Destiny he never would’ve chosen, not with a powerful witch by his side, but a _bard_. 

As they watch, hand in hand, the sun sets in a thin, hazy string of red. It drips over the horizon, chased by darkness. Jaskier thinks he could probably write a whole song about that sunset, though it speaks to his general character that he’s passed up a story about a dragon to add another song about sunsets to his repertoire. 

The fire doesn’t feel quite so silly now, as a chill sets in quickly with the night, but the lack of trees or any other buffer around them does. 

“We shouldn’t sleep here.” Geralt stands and offers Jaskier a hand to do the same. “Are you alright to hike a little farther? To a better campsite.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh and gestures to his nearly ruined boots. They really weren’t made for mountains but they were, before all the dust and grime, very fashionable. “Since when do you care about my feet?”

“Since you started waiting for me.”

Geralt is bent over his pack, trying to get everything together for travel, so his face is obscured but Jaskier thinks he spots a blush rise to the tips of Geralt’s ears. _That_ must have been a monumental task for his slow bloodstream. 

“Let me help?”

The things he unpacked earlier aren’t fitting in his bag, the careful order of them upset. Jaskier kneels beside Geralt, picking up some of the pieces and helping him find their place.

“Hm.”

The world rights itself, normalizing its orbit around a single syllable. 

Jaskier thinks that, when push comes to shove, he could live with just that sound, just that little affirmation that Geralt is listening. 

Though, he’s never been one to settle. He’ll train some words out of Geralt yet.

Just as soon as they’re off this gods-forsaken mountain.

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom! This show has taken over my life and I've already read at least 80% of all Jaskier fanfics, so I figured it was finally time to contribute. 
> 
> I listened to Hurt Somebody by Noah Kahan when I wrote this and now I'm craving one of those Geralt/Jaskier edits with that song. It fits them and their terribly dysfunctional communication so well.
> 
> Also, I know this is just a whole lot of words of them talking, but there's not enough of it in the show, so. Here it is.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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